


Code 999

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gentleness, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft returns home when the 'for emergency use only' code is used to access his home. As it turns out, he and Greg have differing definitions of 'emergency'.





	Code 999

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saratonin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saratonin/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/566538828106622735/) image and a conversation with SaratoninakaMonicola.

Mycroft pursed his lips, reading the text that had just arrived to his personal mobile.

 

_Entry permitted: Code 999, Main entrance._

 

Someone had used the emergency code to his front door. The term ‘someone’ implied that there was more than one possibility however only one person had ever been given that code. Apparently today was the day that warranted its use. Mycroft absently typed for a moment, sending the code to confirm his acceptance of the notification; meanwhile the main part of his brain was wondering what on earth Lestrade could want with him at this time of night. Whatever it was, he would know that Mycroft had been alerted and would surely be waiting. Murmuring apologies, Mycroft excused himself from the formal dinner, at which he was hardly necessary; now that dessert had been served, the outcome of the delicate negotiations he had been asked to orchestrate was clear, to him at least. It would take at least another hour, and he burned too fiercely with curiosity to find out why the Detective Inspector had used the ‘only in emergencies’ code Mycroft had given him.

In the car back to his home, Mycroft reflected on the odd relationship he and Lestrade shared. It was not quite friendship, little experience though Mycroft had to compare it to. Lest- _Greg_ , he’d told Mycroft more than once to call him Greg – hugged him every time they had met since August 12th, when Mycroft had returned from three excruciating weeks away. He had moved from signing his texts _Lestrade_ to _Greg_ to _Greg_ _x_ during Mycroft’s absences, while Mycroft’s had remained _Mycroft_ (it was his name, what else would he use?). They often ate out, though there had been a 79% increase in the frequency with which Greg suggested an alternative – generally a movie or documentary he thought might interest Mycroft on Netflix. The four occasions on which this had happened had been a perfect study in the progression of their relationship, whatever it was.

 

First, a documentary: Greg brought buttered popcorn, which sat between them on the sofa. Mycroft ate precisely ten pieces. Greg grinned at him and squeezed his hand as he departed.

 

Second, a popular movie: Greg brought chocolate covered pretzels, a gift from an American colleague. He’d offered them to Mycroft, who had politely taken one (it was revolting). Greg sat slightly closer on the sofa, and as he departed, ran one hand from Mycroft’s shoulder to his hand, where the farewell squeeze took 2.4 times longer than the previous time.

 

Third, the sequel to the previous movie: Greg brought popcorn again, this time sitting right next to Mycroft with the bowl on his lap. Mycroft ate ten pieces and reluctantly explained his careful attention to his diet when Greg asked if he didn’t like popcorn. This was August 12th, the first time Greg had hugged Mycroft, as he departed.

 

Fourth, eight days prior to today, another documentary: Greg brought air popped plain popcorn, sitting right next to Mycroft again, the bowl once again in his lap. Halfway through, he’d hooked one foot under Mycroft’s crossed ankles, pressing his shin to Mycroft’s calf. Another hug as he left, this time several times longer and somehow more significant than the previous time (Mycroft had lost track of time as he tried to take note of as much data as possible).

 

The _Greg x_ text message signature had begun immediately after the last date, that very night in fact.

 

_Another great night, thanks Mycroft. – Greg x_

 

Mycroft had not known how to respond and so had sent nothing. It had not seemed to deter Greg, as the cheerful morning greeting (‘Morning, handsome!’) had continued to arrive every day after that. There were regular texts through the day, sometimes isolated, other times with a short exchange. It had taken Mycroft a long time to become used to this, and he’d asked Greg once why he did it.

“Why do I text you?” Greg repeated blankly.

“Yes,” confirmed Mycroft.

“Well, I want to tell you about stuff. About funny things, or silly things, or what’s happening.” Greg shrugged. “Sometimes I just want you to know I’m thinking about you.”

Mycroft had nodded slowly, considering this. The conversation had moved on, but the following day he had sent a tentative message to Greg, informing him of an amusing moment with a Slovakian diplomat. The reply had been immediate.

_Ha! Lucky for them you speak both languages. What would Britain do without you? – Greg x_

_She would persevere, of course. – Mycroft_

_Wither and die, more likely. You’re one in a million, Mycroft. We’re lucky to have you. – Greg x_

 

Mycroft had blushed at that, grateful he’d waiting until he was sitting at his own desk before sending the first message. Although he ended the conversation there, the positive response had encouraged him. He restricted himself to one spontaneous message before midday and one after, not wanting to bore Greg with his anecdotes or observations. As it was, he often knew the minutiae of Greg’s life, and their meetings became far less formal, even at expensive restaurants. He suspected Greg knew how inexperienced he was at this, and although he’d figured out that Greg was flirting, he had no idea how to reciprocate, other than accepting the advances and waiting (hoping?) for more.

+++

As the car pulled up at his house, Mycroft took a deep breath. He would have been told if an incident with Sherlock had occurred, or anything relating to Greg’s professional life; therefore it was something personal. Mycroft had already scrolled through his mental list of potential personal crises Greg might encounter; several were possible. He wouldn’t know until he entered, however, and there was nothing to be done but enter.

“Once more unto the breech,” Mycroft muttered as he passed the security protocols on his front door. Shedding his coat, gloves and umbrella, he paused.

“Gregory?” he called. There was no answer, which he expected, having called out mainly to warn Greg that it was he moving through the otherwise silent building. Several lights burned, and he followed them up the stairs, controlling his breathing but not his heart, which thumped against his chest. The door to his bedroom was ajar and he paused, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open. Greg lounged across the chaise lounge, naked save for a pair of white y-front underpants. There was a very obvious erection straining against the cotton, and Mycroft found his gaze riveted. As he watched, the cock trapped there jumped a little; he found his breath catching at the sight.

“Hi,” Greg said, propping himself up on his elbows and looking directly at Mycroft. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I can see that,” replied Mycroft, stepping across the room, stopping at the end of the chaise. He stuck one hand in his pocket, withdrawing a white handkerchief before replacing his hand in the pocket. He had no idea why his hands had done it, except that it was something to do; a nervous fidget, something he’d not done for a long time.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

“Oh, I kept myself busy.” Greg’s eyes and voice were full of meaning beyond the words, and Mycroft swallowed hard. He could feel his own body responding, swelling as his eyes roved over Greg’s body, displayed so unashamedly on his chaise. The green blanket had been shifted, and the contrast between the cream satin of the furniture and Greg’s tanned skin was tantalising.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he closed it again, looking helplessly at Greg.

“Would you care to join me?” Greg asked carefully. “If you’d rather not I can let myself out, but I thought perhaps we’d danced around this long enough.”

Swallowing again, Mycroft nodded. Hesitantly, his fingers moved over his buttons, slipping off both his jacket and waistcoat before moving to his accessories. Once his cravat and cufflinks lay beside them on the bed, he turned to look at Greg. The man was patiently waiting, watching Mycroft with a gentle smile. As Mycroft sat on the end of the bed to remove his shoes and socks, he had to remind himself to breathe, the reality of what might be about to happen crashing over his head. Socks tucked into his shoes, Mycroft finally stood up and stepped over to Greg, sitting uncertainly on the side of the chaise. He reached out one hand, settling it on Greg’s chest. The flesh was firm and warm under his fingers, and Mycroft felt his head tilt as he watched Greg’s face. One finger traced a line down the breastbone before circling up and skating over a nipple; the brown eyes closed, white teeth biting on a lower lip in response. Mycroft continued his exploration, fascinated by the effect of his single finger on Greg’s body.

“I would very much like to kiss you,” Mycroft found himself saying, mesmerised by the movement of Greg’s mouth as he gasped, bit and licked his lips. He saw the dark eyes open again, wide and affectionate as Greg grinned breathlessly.

“I was hoping you would,” panted Greg, catching his breath after Mycroft’s extensive experimentation on his nipples. Sitting up, Greg shifted his hips close to Mycroft, pressing one shaking hand to Mycroft’s face. Mycroft’s hand dropped to Greg’s thigh, furry and muscled, but his focus was Greg’s mouth. The detective leaned a little closer but then stopped, offering but not demanding. Mycroft leaned in too, feeling Greg’s breath on his skin before their lips met in a brush, then a longer press; Mycroft found himself immediately wanting more. He pressed in again, tongue tasting along Greg’s bottom lip, and he was rewarded not only with the intoxicating taste of Greg, but with Greg’s parted lips, inviting him in to sample the flavour at its source. The sensation of his tongue being caressed by Greg’s was intense; Mycroft made a highly embarrassing groan, matched only by a similar noise from Greg.

“Christ,” breathed Greg, leaning out from Mycroft and panting hard. His hand had crept around to the back of Mycroft’s neck at some point, bringing him in closer, angling him for better reach. Now that hand remained, fingertips curling into Mycroft’s neck, the slightly proprietorial touch sending a thrill through him. Mycroft met Greg’s eyes, blue on brown, and his brain took seconds to process the next words out of Greg’s mouth.

“I want to taste every freckle on your body, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft’s diaphragm spasmed, his breathing stuttering at the desire washing over his body at the sound of Greg’s voice. The growl was need incarnate, infusing the air with desperation and arousal and the unmistakable essence of _sex_ , and it washed over Mycroft’s skin like fire. As it soaked into his pores Mycroft felt the arousal racing through his veins and suddenly every cell in his body was screaming for Greg’s touch. More than that, the feel of his tongue caressing Mycroft’s body. _Every freckle,_ Greg had specified, and Mycroft knew exactly how many centimetres of his skin were graced with freckles.

“Oh, yes…” gasped Mycroft. Greg smirked and his lips met Mycroft’s again, the same but different, hungrier, more demanding. When Mycroft was whining, breathing hard and irregular Greg started on his promise, sliding kisses all over Mycroft’s face. Sometimes his tongue dragged across, rough and wet. He nipped at the end of Mycroft’s nose, tongue soothing over the spot immediately. When every centimetre had been kissed, Greg’s mouth ventured down the long straight of Mycroft’s neck. Blissfully, Mycroft stretched, closing his eyes as Greg’s mouth slowly explored, wandering back and forth, finding spots that made Mycroft produce the most astonishing noises. He found himself groaning, gasping, moaning Greg’s name and wordless sounds, whimpering and crying out, back arching, as Greg discovered every secret place. Mycroft had no idea how his shirt was open, but all of a sudden Greg’s mouth closed over one nipple and a shout was rent from his mouth, fingers gripping something hard (was that Greg’s shoulders?), needing to anchor himself.

“Ohhh!”

Greg paused, leaning up, mouth hovering over Mycroft’s ear. “Too much?” he whispered, the shifting air making Mycroft shiver. His face burned, eyes closed as he nodded a tiny confirmation. Without conscious decision Mycroft started preparing himself for the inevitable rejection, repairing where the defences around his heart had begun to crumble. Before he could do more than pull himself inwards, the touch of Greg’s hand on his face brought Mycroft back with a jerk. His eyes flew open, the repairs on his heart faltering as he fixated on the kind brown eyes above him.

“Mmmmm,” Greg hummed, eyes locked to Mycroft’s, “That means I get to try new places next time.” In disbelief, Mycroft relaxed a little, trying a smile of his own. Greg dropped a kiss on that smile, then another before lying down beside Mycroft, wrapping one arm around his waist. Mycroft felt silver hair tickle under his chin as Greg tucked his head into the spot over his shoulder.

“Next time?” murmured Mycroft.

“Of course,” Greg confirmed, his tone satisfied.

Mycroft smiled to himself. _Next time,_ he thought with a flutter.


End file.
